of everything blue and bright
by lady madland
Summary: — in the end, there is no perfect love story. but she remembers there is Sasuke and there is Itachi and, honestly, it is enough. a tale about tomatoes, fireflies in the dark and love that happens and can't be measured with simple words. japanese edo period! -—itasakusasu ;


**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: to everyone who has been reading my stories & still put up with my craziness. _thank you_. this story is also a gift to myself, because it's a fricking_ miracle_ i posted it — it has been finished since last _may_ — and because i'm really awesome and all that shit —pfff, _not._  
**notes**: japanese edo period!; alternative universe. the excessive use of words is _entirely_ on purpose, as well as the repetition of expressions and the lenght of phrases. this chapter has not been proofread because i'm tired _as fuck_ & i don't really care about my mistakes right now. please, just deal with it.  
**notes2**: the music throughout the story is "as lovers go", by Dashboard Confessional, and the one in the beggining is "by my side", from Naruto Shippuden's 20th ending. _guys_, it has Kushina _embrancing_ Naruto. i think that's quite enough said.  
**notes3**: story revolves around Sakura & her beautiful,_ beautiful_ boys. women could not be medics or samurais in that time, but _fuck this_, i'm not debating the social context here. if you're looking for some, run away & go live with the pumpkin monkeys (they're pretty cool, by the way) — but if you decide to stay, then i promise i have lots of love & glitter for you. the world _does _need a little of glamour, after all.  
**notes4**: numbers written in portuguese, because i love my mother language almost as much as the sound of pouring rain. and that's saying _a lot_.

**chapter title**: as l**over**s go  
**summary**: in the end, there is no perfect love story. but she remembers there is Sasuke and there is Itachi and, honestly, it is enough. a tale about tomatoes, fireflies in the dark and love that happens and can't be measured with simple words. japanese edo period! -—ItaSakuSasu

—

.

.

.

.

the first duty of love is to _listen_

.˙. ¤ .˙.

.˙.˙.

˙.˙

. of everything _—_ **blue **& **bright ** .

.˙.

.˙.˙.

___Deep inside my heart, there will always be a place for you_  
_Even if your tears were to take you farther away from this world  
I would never let go of your hand_  
_So yes, right now, I need you here_  
_Right by my side, by my side_  
_—Hemenway_

˙.˙.˙

˙.˙

. { **um **1 } .

(_she said i've got to be honest_  
_you're wasting your time if you're fishing around here_)

She thinks it would be easier to love Sasuke, if only because Sasuke is more wild and unpredictable and she will know never to fully trust him with her heart. Sasuke won't want it anyway, because he has no use for women's hearts — and Sakura supposes that by 'easier' she means 'safer' and 'less real' and 'not going to end in heartbreak because how can Sasuke break her heart if she never gives it to him in the first place?'

(_she remembers her mother who had been very beautiful and oh so very sad who had still pined for that man year after year after year and who had died more from a broken heart than any illness_)

So she tells Itachi, who regards her with dark, abyssal eyes, "sorry." Sorry, because Sasuke, after all, is safer in his danger, predictable in his unpredictability, trustworthy in his untrustworthiness, and_ she's not going to end up like her mother_. Sasuke will never hang up his sword for her, because she will never ask him to, and Itachi — Itachi is too steady, too patient, too reliable — Itachi is someone she can learn to lean on, and that would be bad, _very bad_.

She thinks he knows all of this, because he accepts her apology with that wise, quiet calm — he accepts everything like that. And when his ebony eyes still glimmer affectionately in the moonlight, his skin luminescent and his hair inky, she realizes that Sasuke has never really been 'easier' or 'safer' or 'less real' because Sasuke _has never been_ _a choice at all_.

Sakura really hates Itachi sometimes, and she thinks he knows that too.

…

…

. { **dois **2 } .

Itachi (_of course_) comes after her just as Sasuke (_of course_) and Naruto (_dear god_) come after her — but Sasuke comes in a cold fury just as much as Naruto comes explosive and reckless, a whirlwind of lanky limbs and flashing metal and toothy grins, spouting profanities. He tells her to run, but she doesn't — she only laughs, soft and true, knowing she was used as bait to lure _him_ out. She stays anyway, even when Sasuke scowls and tells her she's annoying and Naruto promises her he wouldn't lose, he wouldn't die.

Itachi had never made her such a promise, and she can't remember if Itachi has ever made her a promise at all. Still, she's not particularly worried, not when Sasuke is almost harmed, not when those samurais dressed in red clouds try to capture her blonde friend, not even when they tell her she is next, because Itachi _is_ _coming_.

Once upon a time, she had doubted him, had believed his loyalties laid elsewhere, had thought that he really did mean to leave her — her and Sasuke and their tentative beginnings. But he _didn't_, she thinks, back to where she waits, the sun warm on her face, tingling on her skin. He _didn't_, and he's _coming_, because he is—

"_Itachi!_"

— steady and patient and reliable, and Itachi had never needed to make a promise. It had been assumed a matter _of course_ that he would come through, that he would never weaken, never wander, never falter, never fail. Itachi _was_ the promise — and more than promise, Itachi was duty, was obligation, was loyalty, was samurai.

She sees him first as a small figure, inky hair blowing with the whispering wind, a stark contrast with the paleness of his skin under the bright sun. His pace is measured, unhurried — still Itachi, still calm and quiet, slow and implacable, because Itachi is (_peace and duty and promise and samurai and home and love_) steady and patient and reliable.

He dies that way (_no no no_), face still impassive and eyes still inscrutable and everything about him is just _so_ mild, katana gutting him through the stomach (_no no no_). He rests under a tree, and _of course_ Itachi would die in the shadows, would die calmly and quietly and beautifully and almost peacefully (_no no no_), because Itachi was always so composed and accepting and he was samurai and _he wasn't supposed to die_—

…

…

. { **três **3 } .

(_Itachi dead with so little fuss and Naruto roars in anger when Sasuke goes out with a blaze of glory and what stupid moron goes and gets himself slashed Sasuke you stupid moron Sasuke Sasuke Sasuke_—)

…

…

. { **quatro **4 } .

In the end, there is a lot of blood.

Naruto fights like a demoniac beast, but he is unhurt and their enemies choose to flee the scene soon afterwards. Sasuke has shallow gashes, and Itachi is still breathing, but they leak blood everywhere and Naruto in gasping, exhaling that powerful and tainted red aura that will become so troublesome later on. But for now — _for now_, at least they're safe. She still has to pull the katana out of Itachi's stomach though, out of his stomach because there is no way he could move otherwise and the blood spurts spurts spurts everywhere, pooling and she can't stop it and her boys are so stupid _no no no_—

…

…

. { **cinco **5 } .

She realizes in the empty silence of her small house, sitting by the door and gazing at her two patients, slowly driving herself insane with boredom — she realizes that she hasn't thought of Itachi as handsome in a very long time, nor of Sasuke as fragile in equally as long.

Still, they look both strange and familiar in that instant. Sasuke, because she's never seen his face so relaxed before, so unguarded, and Itachi, because she's never seen him with his hair unbound — so she studies them both. Sasuke, who stills builds up walls around his feelings to anyone but Itachi and Naruto and _her_ — Itachi, still so beautiful it hurts, even after all this time, even after she should long ago have become accustomed with him.

That moment passes, and they are again her idiosyncratic boys, so alike her heart beats fast yet so dissimilar it's bizarre — but they are dear nonetheless. It's just Sasuke who gives her those icy glares once in a while, who calls her short and annoying and un-endowed, but still ruffles her hair sometimes in disgruntled affection. It's just Itachi who never smiles but tucks his hands into his sleeves and closes his eyes to show that he's happy, who walks sometimes with a peculiar grace and distant eyes, moving in time to some music only he could hear.

She wonders how they see her, wonders what they must see when they look to have followed and protected her this far. She nags so frequently at Sasuke and she chatters so much around Itachi — and she wonders if it might have been pity.

But then she recalls Sasuke's grin when she had thanked him for coming after her, and she remembers the clear, affectionate gaze in the sunlight—

And she's_ just_ Sakura — stubborn and childish Sakura, whose strength is of a monster and is annoying as hell and has a propensity of getting kidnapped to be used as bait and is always ready to bite someone's (_usually Naruto's_) head off —

Just Sakura.

…

…

. { **seis **6 } .

Sasuke recovers first, because Sasuke refuses to be 'weak' and has to keep on fighting to surpass his brother and _Dobe better_ _not be training without me_. He's psychotic like that — eats just enough to not hear one of her complaints and then tries to get away from the house, only to collapse into slumber soon afterwards. That is his healing process and, yes, she's happy that he's recovering, but she wants (_so badly_) to kill him (_and __painfully_) sometimes. He never talks to her now, because he _doesn't have the time_, too busy eating and then thinking about what he's losing here when he could be improving his skills and then rolling over and going to sleep. _Bastard_, she thinks, and then, _ingrate_.

And then she smiles, because Sasuke has a disturbingly cute snore.

…

…

. { **sete **7 } .

"My mother used to always brush my hair when I hurt myself as a child. This was before her death and my training with Tsunade-shishou, of course, but she used to say that with every brushing she was taking a little of my pain away. Is it true?"

He listens to her without opening his eyes, and his movements are quiet, mellifluous — like water, at once sweet and bland. She's woken him up.

"Oh, I suppose it might be. I'm sorry for waking you — you have very pretty hair, you know? Not that it's unmanly, it's just pretty, which I suppose is an unmanly word, but it's… Well, what I'm trying to say is that it looks good on you and I like it—"

"Then I am glad." His eyes open and he gazes at her, contemplatively. She makes an effort to halt her nervous babble.

"Do you want to eat something?" He's terribly thin, she notices, helping him sit up — but the clothes hide it disgustingly well.

"Hn," he leans against the wall, and regards her for a long moment, still with that contemplative air. Then he gingerly feels his wound, sighing and saying, at length, "but nothing solid yet. Some soup, I think, or broth. And tea, maybe."

Itachi has lovely table manner, even propped up against a crumbling shack wall, half-dead and starved for a week. It's not fair, of course, but it's Itachi, and Itachi does not waver — steady, she thinks, but happily this time, steady and patient and reliable.

…

…

. { **oito **8 } .

It's not long before Sasuke is up and splashing around in the ocean with Naruto, both trying to drown each other — and perhaps she could help them with that, except she _can't_. Itachi does not recover so fast, but Itachi stays awake and talks to her sometimes, because Sakura cannot go swimming and finds the water too cold anyway. She's grateful that he tries, this silent _ronin_, even though he never has much to say — grateful, because he looks very tired and she knows he's not one for much talking; grateful, because he's a very good listener. She tells him this, and he smiles in that way he has without actually smiling, his hands folding themselves together over his stomach (_she supposes he'd be wanting clothes with sleeves again soon_) — and she loves this smile, because though his lips never move, his eyes are _bright_ and _clear_ and very, very pretty.

…

…

. { **nove **9 } .

"Do you miss it?" She touches his nape, and he draws back involuntarily — she's okay with it though, because her fingertips are cold and it's a very subtle shift — but still, it's _Itachi_, and she hastily stammers out an apology.

"My hair?" He asks, face impassive but his eyes always tell her _so much_. "I am not quite certain of what you mean."

She eyes his ebony locks, always reaching his back but now short enough to lick the skin of his shoulders. She had wanted to smooth the jagged tips while he still slept, but she thinks it would have tasted of invasion and betrayal. Therefore, she waits, and the pain of guilt strikes her heart every time she recalls those samurais in red clouds—

(_and__ that __steady and patient and reliable__ but such an idiot, shielding her and losing half of his hair in the process and oh god there's so much blood—_)

— but then, she remembers he could have had lost _his life_, and now the guilt is lighter.

"I mean — are you letting it grow again?"

"Hn," he says, and she feels the same old prickling irritation at the word. '_Hn_,' he says when he's being particularly unreadable. '_Hn_,' he says and she never understands. '_Hn_,' he says, and he had looked at her (_once upon a time_) with such dark, lovely, patient eyes. "Perhaps. However, it does not do to dwell in the past. I will accept losing whatever is necessary to protect you and Sasuke." She frowns at his words, and he lapses into silence, face carefully blank but eyes clouding over and she _knows_.

"How long have you cared so much about it?" And she's not talking about the hair.

"Since mother said I should protect what is precious to me." His voice is tranquil, but she thinks he sounds as if he had somehow lost part of his soul. Which, she supposes, he had.

She collects the bowls and tells him to get some sleep, before heading outside to wash the dishes. The well water is cold, but the autumn sun is warm, and she ponders as she watches the swallows flying in the sky. She thinks about needing to find a new katana for Itachi soon, because Itachi lives, breathes, eats, sleeps samurai — and one for Naruto too (_at least_ _Sasuke is careful enough to not break or lose or whatever his_), because that idiot can't function if he can't fight, and without a sword he can't fight the trouble he goes looking for.

She dries her hands, sighs because she does not advocate violence (_much_), and goes to save her boys from their own form of constipation.

…

…

. { **dez **10 } .

It rains sometimes and the roof leaks and she thinks about her mother living here. Itachi, if he's awake, takes out some rag and begins polishing his _wakizashi_, and in his low, quiet voice, speaks. Sometimes he chides her gently for her gloomy face, sometimes he pithily observes something very pitying and very insulting about Sasuke — it doesn't matter, because Sasuke, who likes to deny the ugly truth; Sasuke, who notices far more than he lets on; Sasuke, who has that brightest gaze of adoration towards his brother — never fails to "_tch_", never fails to be scornful; and Sakura has to smile and chime in because her two boys _do care_.

She's happy like this, arguing with Naruto over the merits of ramen, feigning irritation when Sasuke calls her 'short', as Itachi looks on, eyes hooded, heavy-lidded — amused and affectionate and aggravatingly adult.

…

…

. { **onze **11 } .

Sasuke, because he is happy and recovered and glad to eat his precious tomatoes while fighting Naruto in the water — Sasuke, because he is fire and thunder and irrepressible and a _bastard_ — Sasuke, because he is Sasuke, reverts back to his habit of calling her 'annoying' when what he really means is 'sweetheart.' She knows this and supposes that she oughtn't mind — after all, this is the way things have been, will continue to be, and if it means that Sasuke is healing and recovering and normal and _happy_ — well, she can live with being called 'annoying' when what he really means is 'sweetheart,' can't she?

She thinks, _no_.

She doesn't know why, but, nevertheless, feels inexplicably grateful when Itachi frowns from his half reclined position against the wall, eyes half-closed, and tells Sasuke that their mother did not taught him that way and to go wash his mouth, if you please.

No, I don't please, Sasuke retorts, in a rare show of openly disrespect towards his dear _nii-san_ and, "besides, Sakura knows she is annoying. She doesn't mind."

Sakura is silent, because, yes, yes, she _does _mind, though she would never say so. She's not finicky like that. She's Sakura, brash but open-minded and not some queen or empress or dainty, delicate flower fearful of what others might say about her. She's Sakura, and surely, _surely_ Sakura would not be so sensitive about what Sasuke calls her, because, after all, what he really means is 'sweetheart.'

He says 'annoying' because he doesn't quite know _how_ to say 'sweetheart'.

"Sakura," says Sasuke, his face relaxed though his eyes are confused, and thoughtful, and not frosty for _once_, "if it bothers you and nii-san that much, I will try. It's— tch, _girls_."

That leaves her disturbed, because she doesn't quite like him clumping her with all the other girls of his acquaintance. Girls, to Sasuke, are pretty and looked at and never loved at all (_he has no use for women's hearts, after all_), and Karin was 'girl' and Sakura doesn't want to be like Karin.

Later, Itachi slips and calls her "Sakura-san", as if all their months together had meant nothing, and she growls as he apologizes with all his maddening civility. She hates this. This is Sasuke, who treats her with such familiarity, taunting about her height (or lack thereof), taunting about her quest, her medicines and healing abilities. This is Sasuke, who never fails to make her smile (_after driving her insane with anger_). This is Itachi, who is always courteous, always aristocratically genteel, always quietly respectful. This is Itachi, who greets her with distantly polite pleasantries and who is content to remain, for hours on end, silent.

This is Sakura, feeling insulted by Sasuke, mocked by Itachi, never quite accustomed either way.

She hates this, because she really does wish they would just agree on how to address her.

She can't do anything about Sasuke — Sasuke is Sasuke, but she asks Itachi one morning over breakfast, while he thanks her with his ever-present formality, "why are you so polite?"

"I beg your pardon?" He glances up, and the response is so very, very Itachi. _I beg your pardon?_

"Why are you so, I don't know — so _formal?_ I don't really know how to reply sometimes." She shrugs, helplessly, because his silences are sometimes so unnerving, and his eyes are too sharp, too clear, too vivid, and _he's looking at her_.

"Formal?" He echoes, brows crinkling slightly, and she remembers that he does, sometimes (_almost never_), call her "Sakura-chan".

"You — I mean, you're polite to _everyone_, only god knows how you do it." (_killing enemies has to be a great stress reliever though I'm not so sure it works at all for Sasuke man has some serious issues_) "And you and I, it's— courtesies, you know? Like I'm someone important or something..." She wrinkles her nose at this, because it's funny — it's funny and she's _just_ _Sakura_.

"Aren't you?" He asks her, instead, and she gapes. "Are you not samurai?" She can only look, because, frankly, there's really nothing else to do when Itachi goes that pathway and—

(_my father was samurai once upon a time a good one maybe_)

"I…" She squeaks, and blinks, because he's put down his chopsticks, and he's looking at her, gaze too piercing, too perspicacious, too _Itachi_— she _hates_ it sometimes. "Yes, I suppose?" She offers, dubious, but he nods, eyes focused again on the meal, and she can continue. "Well, alright, I understand that. I get the whole 'we're-both-samurai' thing. But you carry my bags for me. And you let me put daisy wreaths in your hair. And then you came after me and got gutted for me, and I— _you didn't have to_."

"Well, that," he tells her, mild and placid, "has nothing to do with courtesies, I think, or my politeness, or your status. It's more to do with the fact that you're _Sakura-chan_."

She doesn't know if he's emphasizing the 'Sakura' or the 'chan'.

"I don't— you— but _why?_"

There it is. Why had he saved her?

Naruto — _Naruto_ she can understand, and Sasuke (_maybe_). She is grateful, of course, because they had come — Naruto _promised_ her he would come, and Sasuke owed nothing to no one, but he had still come to face (_what could have been_) his death. Still, those samurais in red clouds (_freaks all of them and such insane bastards_) had taken her only to get to her boys. Had they felt guilt? She wonders about it sometimes, and dismisses it as unimportant. Naruto and Sasuke had saved her life, and that is enough.

But she does not understand Itachi. Naruto had come for her — not 'for her' as in 'bait' or 'to hurt someone else' — for _her_. Sakura-chan. And Itachi must have come for _her_, too — not because of a promise, Itachi was not _bound_ to her. Itachi, who could have left so easily. Itachi, who had already died once for her. She cannot understand Itachi.

"I suppose," he tells her, tone light and worlds slow, and the sun shines warm on her face as his gaze turns to her again, "I suppose it could be that my swords finally found someone worth serving — and perhaps my heart has grown weary of ronin-hood. I suppose it could be a number of things, or nothing at all. Does it matter? It is past."

_It is_, her heart tells her, so she smiles at him, and they begin anew. Or something like that.

It is past.

…

…

. { **doze **12 } .

Time passes and, eventually, they have to go and she has to stay. She understands, of course (_she's a healer and they're samurai and she's samurai too but a healer first always first_), and it's not her duty to stop them anyway. But she does not smile, because she hates watching their backs while they walk away and if it means being left behind then she _won't_smile. She keeps watching though, the sunset turning Naruto's hair into liquid gold as it casts shadows upon Sasuke — they're day and night and she likes to think she's everything in between — and Itachi tells her _we will be back later__,_ and even if she doesn't know how much 'later' means, she knows it does not mean 'wait for us'.

She does anyway.

…

…

. { **treze **13 } .

She remembers that after they part ways life becomes normal and difficult and wonderful all at once. She remembers, when she stumbles (_like always like forever_) upon a samurai; remembers, when she heals someone; remembers, when she curls on her futon at night, cold and lonely and wishing for a vast, starry expanse overhead, wishing for that one companion who eats tomatoes and snores so cutely, wishing for the other, who is polite and had always slept with his back to a tree. She remembers their promises to meet again, and _he_ had told her that she was samurai and _he_ had called her 'annoying' when he really meant 'sweetheart' — and the next morning dawns bright and luminous and she remembers it is past.

She remembers Sasuke and she remembers Itachi and she remembers how to be brave.

…

…

. { **quatorze **14 } .

Sasuke comes and visits her first, and neither Naruto nor Itachi are with him but she does not question it. He comes with arms empty save the katana she gave to him before his departure and a single exotic hairpin. "Here," he hands it to her, and _it_ smells of strawberry and _heartbreak_, "this one belonged to some princess."

Sakura carefully picks it out of his hands and stares at the gold encrusted jewelry, then at _the_ _bastard_. "Princess?"

"Hn," Sasuke is impassive but he still grimaces, and she can guess what he is going to say. "She gave it to me because she wished to marry, but I said she was not worthy and I didn't throw it out because I thought you might like it— Sakura, _stop_ trying to burn me alive with your eyes, this is the _last time_ I do something for you."

He stays for a week and she mends his clothes, and he thanks her (_as best as he knows how_) at dinner, sticks the princess' hairpin into her hair, calls her 'annoying' ('_sweetheart_') when she tries to pull it off, scoffs when she threatens to not let him go through the door if he does not start treating women better—

—and leaves by climbing out the kitchen window.

She sighs and smiles and sits, waits for Itachi.

…

…

. { **quinze **15 } .

She's pretty happy, she supposes — her house is small and her income as a healer modest, but at least she doesn't go hungry like after her mother's death and before Tsunade-shishou. Sasuke comes to visit again — she suspects he's very enamored with her garden of tomatoes, but she owes him her life, and when he's around she has someone to bicker and talk to, so she opens her doors to him with a smile and a hug and a place at the dinner table.

She asks, delicately, after Itachi sometimes, and he, equally delicate, replies that he doesn't know.

_Ronins_, she thinks in disgust, and discovers that an entire row of tomatoes has disappeared. _Sasuke_, she thinks in disgust, because he's in a class all by himself.

…

…

. { **dezesseis **16 } .

(_and send it a thousand miles, thinking_)

He writes her a letter sometime in the second year — short, because Itachi has never been talkative, but she admires the pretty calligraphy (_pretty like how he's pretty — entirely unfair_) and he doesn't talk about the weather or roads, so she supposes that her status has not deteriorated into mere acquaintance (_and he would not write if that was the case_). It's distressingly bland at first, objective and formal — but she reads it and it's Itachi and his humor has always been dry. It begins with "_Sakura-chan_," which is practical and she envies his ability to be so pragmatic with letter writing — how many letters had she crumpled because she didn't know if to begin with '_Dear_' or '_Honorable_' or '_Dearest_' or anything at all?

"_Sakura-chan_," it begins, and she likes how he writes that, likes how he writes her name and that she's still "_Sakura-chan_" to someone (_to him_). It ends simply "_Itachi_." Not "_Yours, Itachi_" or "_Sincerely, Itachi_" or "_I'll see you later, keep fighting, Itachi,_" which, of course, he would never write.

"_Itachi._"

She likes that too — lone and solitary and bare, but it's 'Itachi' and it's enough.

…

…

. { **dezessete **17 } .

He doesn't bring her anything when he shows up at her door with a polite bow and a quiet "Sakura" (_and it's not "__Sakura-chan_" but it's alright). She's happy to see him, of course, and she supposes he's happy to see her as well, but it's Itachi, and she never could tell with him.

She invites him in for tea, and he accepts in that quiet, well-bred 'thank-you-very-much-I-suppose-I-ought-to-accept' way of his. It's awkward at first, because she hasn't seen him in so long (_and he's grown so thin_), and she can't just knock him over the head like she does with Naruto, or berate him for not visiting sooner like she can with Sasuke. Because it's Itachi, who stays silent and sips tea almost happily because Itachi really likes tea.

Still, he looks around, and his eyes focus on her. He squints, which catches her by surprise because Itachi never squints and—

"I've seen your hairpin before," he tells her, tone unassuming, and she knows _he_ _knows_ where he has seen it.

"Yeah, it's from a princess," she mumbles quietly, and then, "_Sasuke_," which is explanation enough.

And it's no longer awkward, because this is familiar, her ranting and reminiscing, him nodding, patient and calm and accepting. This is familiar, and this is good, and this is his presence in her house as if it had always belonged here. This is happy and this is warm and this, dear god, this is _falling_—

This is Itachi and this is enough.

…

…

. { **dezoito **18 } .

He chops wood for her and makes sure that she has enough for the winter before he climbs onto the roof and fixes the one spot that has always leaked. It's a cool day, clear and crisp, and he tells her (_voluntarily_) that he's rather fond of autumn. She asks him why, of course, because all the leaves fall and the trees become bare and she likes summer _so much more_, but he tells her that this is the time of the year when everything start to die (_and_ _it's_ _by death that nature renews itself_). The sun shines warm on her face and the wind breezes lightly through her hair and Itachi is fixing her roof.

She makes lunch for him, because none of her boys knows how to cook. He thanks her by which he means 'be careful and be brave' and tells her that he will see her again soon. She's grateful for that, because Itachi never lies and she doesn't like goodbyes. She waves to him as his figure slowly disappears into the distance, waves because this isn't goodbye.

She turns and sees the piles of wood chopped for winter and she smiles.

…

…

. { **dezenove **19 } .

_Soon_, she supposes, means something different to him than it means to her. _Soon _stretches into months, and then a year, and then another. A third, and she wonders bitterly if he's forgotten her, if he's married now and if maybe he has children and a nice, cozy home as well. She looks around at her own small, cramped house, and hates him.

It's been three years (_three years and even Naruto has come to visit her a dozen of times_), and it's autumn again — bleak and cold and gray and bare, and she puts his letter away — it's old now, the parchment stiff and cracked.

She lets Sasuke kiss her that day.

…

…

. { **vinte **20 } .

(_some days, though, she remembers that she is a healer, a samurai, and she must learn to be brave; __some days, she wonders where Itachi is and why he has forgotten her — and remembers, "it could be a number of things, or nothing at all. Does it matter? It is past."_

_yes, she says to herself, past, and learns to ignore the steady__ '__no no no' __beating of her heart._)

…

…

. { **vinte e um **21 } .

(_it is like the flowers falling at spring's end_  
_confused, whirled in a tangle_)

Sasuke is kind, of course; a bit rough around the edges and an ingrate, but he means well. He _does_ like her, and if it feels a bit odd to kiss him — well, it's only _odd_, and not necessarily unpleasant. She supposes that she must like him too — she likes that he's there when she gets home from work and she likes telling him about her day, though Sasuke always has a comment about how he could be improving his skills and it makes her snap bitingly back. She usually never manages to get past the weekend without a missing row of tomatoes as well, but she supposes that's a reasonable price to pay for his company.

He listens, and she's content with that, because he's there, even if he must call her 'annoying'. She could do worse, she supposes, and frowns — because, really, she _should_ be thinking that she couldn't do better. And that's true enough, because Sasuke is very skilled with his sword. And she's (_getting old_) almost twenty.

…

…

. { **vinte e dois **22 } .

She worries, because she can't keep Sasuke — she can't, because there's _nothing_ there. She worries that he only stays because he wants to, because she feeds him. She worries, because she thinks she might be going insane — wasn't this, after all, what she wanted? She worries, because Sasuke was never 'easier' to love.

She doesn't need Sasuke, and that worries her.

…

…

. { **vinte e três **23 } .

Eventually, she lets Sasuke go. She does love him, just not in the way she had expected to.

It's hours after dusk, the sky painted in strokes of orange and pink, when the princess knocks, a voluptuous, curvaceous woman with blonde hair and lovely eyes. She's dressed plainly, but the fabric of her kimono is expensive; smiling, but her eyes are hard; face beautiful, but the set of her mouth and the slant of her eyes are calculating — and Sakura knows instinctively why this woman has come.

She can smile because, somehow, she's not surprised, not hurt — she _does_ smile when the woman narrows her eyes and tells Sakura, "I'm Yamanaka Ino, and I've come to marry Uchiha Sasuke."

Sakura thinks, hearing Sasuke curse the world like the ingrate he is upon seeing this woman — Sakura thinks that, maybe, she _does_ believe in happily-ever-after's.

She lets (_makes_) Sasuke go with a smile on her lips and waves the two of them (_Ino still smiling but eyes softer now Sasuke still cursing but not so much out of annoyance — something else_) out of the door with many blessings and, inexplicably, she feels happier, lighter. Glad.

…

…

. { **vinte e quatro **24 } .

It's her alone in her little house again, and she settles down into the steady rhythm of life, because she is healer but samurai and brave — steady and patient and reliable, and it's not so bad, this life.

…

…

. { **vinte e cinco **25 } .

It's a flurry of commotion when he comes back to her; all the patients under her care are restless as the village women gather at the doors, peering and giggling at some traveler down the road. She tilts her head to catch a look, because she is curious as well, about this "_so handsome — do you think he's married? Look at that hair!_" traveler—

Who, of course, is Itachi.

That is how things go, or perhaps Itachi is just remarkable like that.

He's thinner now, which she had not thought possible at all — gaunt and wan and sharper looking, wrists almost delicate in their boniness — but still calm and composed and impassive. Still Itachi.

"Hello," she says when he reaches her cottage, smiling while she leads him to her overgrown backyard. He sits there, back straight, mismatched daisho by his side (_and his hair is long once again and so pretty it's almost an offense_).

He meets her gaze with those dark, abyssal eyes. "Sakura-chan," he says, and it's not_ fair_ — it's not fair because _it's enough_.

_Sakura-chan_, he'd said.

…

…

. { **vinte e seis **26 } .

Some days, he doesn't speak at all, and some days, his vocabulary seems to be comprised of only "Hn" and "Aa" and the occasional "_Sakura-chan_". She doesn't like "Hn" much, because she never knows how to answer something that can mean "yes," or "no," or "shut up, _please_," — except Itachi does not say "shut up" (_and even if he says she won't know anyway_).

Other days, he smiles that brief, flitting, whimsical smile of his, and tells her stories about Sasuke and their childhoods and what seems to be the entire history of House Uchiha. There are days when he teaches her calligraphy and days when he brushes her hair for her, with patient even strokes — because she's furious and frustrated and the hair is misbehaving.

"It's not fair," she tells him, chin propped on a hand, while he sits behind her, quiet. She listens to his soft breathing, feels his gentle warmth, and pretends that she can hear the steady thump-thump-thump of his beating heart. "It should be wrong that your hair is prettier than mine. In fact, I think there should exist some natural law against it."

"Hn," he replies, but sounds amused.

"I mean — you're a _man_. You're not supposed to do _pretty_, because you're supposed to be all — all tough and rough and 'grrr, I am a man, dammit' stuff, you know?"

"Naruto," he says, placid, and then, "Sasuke."

"Yes — but _no_, because then you wouldn't be Itachi. I wouldn't wish anyone to be Naruto or Sasuke anyway, because — well, one of each is enough, isn't it?"

"Hn," and it's almost a _laughter_.

"I just — how come you have such pretty hair? What do you do to it? How many times do you wash it a week? I'd die for hair like that, I really would — it's so thick and shiny and soft and I really, really hate you."

"Hn," he says, deft fingers beginning to braid.

"I wonder sometimes why you keep it so long. Actually, I wonder many things about you, but that's your own fault, because you _never talk_ — why do you insist on being so damn secretive? I would have thought that long hair would be impractical with all the maintenance required—"

"It is easier," he tells her, meditatively, "to cut."

"Oh, I suppose it would be — you'd just have to tie it back and cut it in a single stroke, wouldn't you? Even so, it's so much _funnier_ when it's short, Itachi. Did you see Sasuke hacking at his hair with his sword?"

"Yes," he answers, reaching around her for the hairpin that smells of strawberry and heartbreak (_but not such a heartbreak anymore, don't you think Sasuke?_).

"He took such a _long_time at it, too — and all the uneven clumps and the chicken-butt — oh,_priceless_. But I suppose you'd have to tie your hair back since you can't really visit the barbershop, right?"

"Hn," he says as he finishes putting her hair up. She catches his hand as he gets up, and he pauses a moment, half-standing, looking down at her with questioning eyes. His hand is large and warm in hers, calloused but well formed, with long, slender fingers and clean fingernails. She likes the feel of it.

"Thank you," she says, eyes earnest and large — and something flickers, ghosts over his face (_slides snaps tilts falls into place_), and then he's smiling that whimsical, faint smile.

"Aa," he says, quiet and kind, and she likes that too.

She likes these days best, and even if he doesn't speak much, he's there and he listens, steady and patient and reliable — but mostly, it's because he's _there_. With her.

(_thank you she told him and he said aa_)

…

…

. { **vinte e sete **27 } .

It's still autumn the first time he kisses her. She at least _thinks_ he kissed her, but she's not completely sure, because perhaps she had gotten tired of waiting and kissed him first. Maybe he had caught her thinking about kissing him and had anticipated her plans, surprising her — which is entirely possible because this is _Itachi_. In any case, they had kissed, and it's light and brief, but it's a kiss and a promise nonetheless—

She blinks up at him, and he looks steadily back at her, calm and wholly unflustered. "What was that?" She asks…

…and he responds, complacently, "a kiss."

"I see," she says, because it was. She squints up at him, and he's gazing speculatively at the clouds — she sighs, before he leaves to chop more wood and she to weed the garden.

She kisses him at the water well later that day, light and brief (_but a kiss and a promise nonetheless_). She suspects he might have smiled when she kissed him — but when she draws back, his face is as composed and blank as ever. "What was that?" He asks, but not unkindly.

"A kiss," she replies without blinking.

"I see," he tilts his head and smiles at her, before taking the buckets of cold water to the kitchen. She remembers that soft curve of his lips as she sweeps away the crimson leaves, and feels her own lips curl in response.

…

…

. { **vinte e oito **28 } .

"Why?" She asks him again, and he smiles in that adorable way of his, half-patient and half-resigned. It's the same question, and, frankly, he has no answer.

"I remember answering that five years ago," he says, watching her through half-lidded eyes. She turns around to wrinkle her nose at him, and then resumes trying to catch fireflies in the dark. "I remember saying something—"

"About how it could have been a number of things, or nothing at all. Which, you must admit Itachi, is not an answer in the slightest. Now— " she pauses, peering into her cupped hands, and the firefly emerges. It settles on the tip of her nose, glowing like the brightest star, and she, staring cross-eyed at it, does not see him smiling, fond and whimsical. It suits him, the smile — he is, in the end, still a young man, even if he forgets that sometimes.

"Now, are you going to tell me," she returns to sit beside him on the wooden balcony, facing him "or am I going to have to beat you?"

And then he's grinning (_however it is that Itachi grins_), eyes glimmering brightly in the darkness — and she kicks off her sandals and scampers into the house and emerges with a pillow and launches herself at him, and then they are laughing — hers clear and ringing, his low and resonant — as he falls (_lets himself fall_) onto the flooring and she falls (_cannot stop herself from falling_) on top of him.

"Itachi," she says, propping herself on her elbows to look him in the eyes, and they are _so close_, "please."

He's silent for a long moment, the fireflies flying lazily around (_and maybe she should apologize and say sorry and get up_), but then he says, "my family was planning a _Coup d'état_ on the emperor."

She inhales a sharp breath, because she _knows_ where this is going and he already told her the middle and the end of his tale, but not the beginning.

"My father was brave, but ungrateful; my mother kind, but complacent with his wishes." He starts, and it must _hurt_. "The whole House Uchiha saw a bright future, but was blind to anything besides power."

"Itachi—"

"Father always put his expectations on me. Sasuke would have had the same fate, but he was little and innocent and I loved him more than anything else. I didn't want him under the control of my family. I didn't want an end like _that_," and he's looking at the sky as if pleading for forgiveness, "but they would have succeeded if I hadn't stopped it."

There is silence for a moment, and she can't help but ask, "he knows?"

He comes even closer, his eyes burning her retinas with their intensity, and she has her answer before he even speaks. "_Yes_. I told him the truth when he was old enough, and he still choose to stay beside me."

_That's Sasuke_, she thinks with pride, because he is fire and thunder and irrepressible and a bastard, but loyal and brave anyway.

He looks away again while he whispers, "sometimes, I wish he would hate me instead of idolizing me for what I did."

"Don't say that," she says in the same tone she uses to scold Sasuke for stealing her tomatoes, which sounds _angry_, but then gently, "you did what was right, you did it for _peace_."

"Or perhaps it was for vengeance, or for justice, or maybe I just hated them," he takes a deep breath, and she thinks he's seeking in the air the relief to the burning on his heart. "Some things, Sakura-chan, I cannot explain. They just _are_."

"So all that time away," her voice is small and meek as she fiddles with a strand of his hair, "it was after answers that you went, in the end."

"And not away from you," he finishes for her. His eyes are sharp and piercing in the darkness, but she's not looking at him. She's waiting for something to snap, to break — waiting for her world to tilt on its axis, waiting for her heart to bleed.

(_and with Sasuke it always smells of strawberry and heartbreak, so why it would be different with Itachi?_)

She waits a long time, and yet, _it_ never comes.

"Itachi," she says finally, hushed, fearing what his words might mean, "that — it really means nothing to me."

"Hn," he says, but it escapes as a quiet chuckle, half-amused and half-relieved.

"Itachi," she says again, a while later, head pillowed on his chest. She listens to his heart thump steadily, and can feel the low rumble as he says, "hn?"

"How much is gratitude worth?"

"And of which currency are we speaking?"

"Love."

"It would depend on the circumstances, I suppose. Is gratitude the basis?"

"I think," she says, slowly, "that you saved my life, just like Sasuke and Naruto did— but that's not the point. I think that you _died_ for me. I think that is enough, and I think that I am grateful. I think — I think it means absolutely _nothing_, because I think you love me."

(_I think I love you_)

"Hn."

"Itachi?"

"Yes?"

"Do you love me?"

"Aa." She doesn't know quite how to take an answer like that (_an answer of "aa" even if she knows it is not in his nature to be emotive_), but she's not surprised and she _does_ recognize his tone — he is telling her _yes_, asking why she would question it because she does not question his breathing or his eating or his sleeping—

"How much?" She teases, dimpling at him.

He raises his head to look at her with slightly bemused eyes. "And the grains of sand in the deserts? Shall I count those for you? The depth of the oceans? The strength of the sun? The rice in the fields and the leaves on the trees and the rocks in the river? How am I to number the stars? What is the distance from here—" touching his heart, then hers "—to here?"

She blinks at him, wide-eyed. "I never took you for a romantic."

His head thuds back onto the wood floor, and she thinks that maybe, _maybe_, he's blushing. "Hn," because he's not agreeing with her — Uchiha Itachi does not blush, _ever_.

"Itachi?"

"Hn?"

"How much?" It comes as a light breath against his collarbone, and he is silent for a very long time. She wonders if maybe he hasn't heard.

In the semi-darkness of flickering fireflies, she feels him smile as he says, voice quiet and soft, says, a young man in love, says, "enough."

_Enough_.

And she smiles too.

…

…

. { **vinte e nove **29 } .

(_and my spirit so high that it was all over the heavens_)

He asks her over lunch one day if she would like to get married. She pauses, chewing thoughtfully on her rice, and answers, "probably."

His eyes are so clear now, she thinks, still dark yet without _darkness_, and he's quiet for another moment before he says, "hn."

They are married a few days later, with very little fuss, because Sakura does not care for fusses and Itachi, who has always been an advocate of simplicity and efficiency and minimalism — Itachi sees no need for them. They go back to her (_their_) house, and she makes lunch, because even if she's samurai and a healer she's a wife now (_and that's what wives do_). They eat and, afterwards, he washes the dishes, which is not what husbands do but what Itachi has done since forever for Sakura. She wipes the table and listens, content, to the low, soothing cadence of his voice as he tells her that he might be a little late coming home today, and would she like him to pick anything up at the market? Yes, she says, a few eggs and bandages, please, and then it's her turn to talk — and she doesn't see the small smile he doesn't try very hard to hide, as she chatters excitedly about the new healing method she has developed.

They go back to work, and she doesn't feel particularly different for having been married that morning. It's something to ponder on as she runs in and out to help her patients, the linen bandages and the scent of sickness and the crackling of fire and the boiling water all familiar in her heart. Then Itachi is stepping into the house, like he always does when she's done for the day, asking for a cup of tea, please. She serves it to him, and he brushes her hand when he takes the cup, a feathery contact by the fingertips, intentional, discreet. It's light, and brief (_a fleeting touch_), but his eyes are warm and clear and she doesn't think anymore about this marriage business and its newness or not newness, because it's Itachi and it's enough.

…

…

. { **trinta **30 } .

He's still quiet, and sometimes leaves her for a week or two, but he comes back (_with jingling gold_), still Itachi, still steady and patient and reliable.

She thinks she likes being married, though she doesn't know if anything has changed except sleeping arrangements. He talks a little more now though, voice soft and low in the dark, and she can see fireflies flickering outside some nights. She likes that, cocooned in his warmth and gentle voice, watching the glow of the bugs through the paper screens. She likes the feel of his hair on her skin, and the steady rise and fall of his chest — likes the fact that he's always there to warm her perpetually cold toes (_frankly, she likes Itachi_).

In the mornings, he kisses her under the apple tree and in the autumn sunshine, eyes bright and faintly smiling, and she tastes, over his own clear, sweet taste (_reminiscent of tea_), the surprise of green apples, not yet ripe. The taste is shocking and lingers on her tongue and then he's really smiling, boyish and charming and like any other young man in love who has just kissed his sweetheart—

(_and her heart breaks a little because it's a finite thing and only so big and she thinks that this feeling Itachi inspires in her is infinite and might one day explode inside her chest_)

Some days, if for no other reason than because the sun shines warm upon her face and the wind breezes lightly and the skies are clear, she kisses him spontaneously. _I like you_, she means with those, because as much as love, she thinks it's important that she likes him. He already knows she loves him, but she wants him to know that she likes him as well.

He returns those kisses over the course of the afternoon and evening — light and brief, because there is still work to be done and it wouldn't do to be distracted (_which_ _is disturbingly all too easy with him_). Even so, with every kiss there's him saying, silently, _I like you too_.

At night, when his low, soft voice falls slow and even and rhythmic on her ears, his breath gently stirring wisps of her hair, when he takes her hand, loose and gentle but, nevertheless, his hand and her hand and together — I love you. When he smiles, eyes bright and clear and beautiful, and when he laughs, an unexpected sound, curiously boyish, like winds whispering over a bamboo flute — I love you. And when he sits beside her, in companionable silence, the both of them sipping tea and watching the fireflies come out, and he lets her rest her head against his shoulder because it's been a long day — I love you. I love you I love you I love you _I love you_.

But mostly — _mostly_, it's how he leaves his daisho on her side of the futon when he goes to bathe. It's how he hands her the same daisho to hold while he climbs up a tree to get her sandal (_the_ _subject of how it got up there in the first place not open for discussion_). It's how he doesn't carry his swords around the house — and though he never physically hangs them on any wall, though he still practices in the early mornings with that silent devotion he has always had, she understands what he has given up for her (_or maybe what he has found in her to which he could dedicate himself_). It's how he wraps her hands around the katana, wraps his own arms around her, his large hands encompassing her slender ones, and guides her through the katas, slow and precise and graceful, smiling slightly when she laughs. It's how he lets her have both the wakizashi and katana, let's her be samurai and be silly — and she's young again, fighting and winning and _Tsunade-shishou is not dead_. But he kisses her on the forehead (_because she has taught him the joy of just being_), repositions her hands on the sword (_because_ _she has also taught him the joy of silliness_), tells her to be careful (_because she should be_), and then goes back to learning how to tend to her tomatoes (_because his brother likes them_). It's how he offers her his soul — how he trusts her not to break him.

It's how he calls her "_Sakura-chan_."

…

…

. { **trinta e um **31 } .

(_this is wonderful as loving goes_)

In the end, there is no passionate declaration, no love letters or terms of endearment. There are no flowers or candies or jewelry, no sake for celebration — there are no fireworks or fanfare or rainbows. In the end, there is no perfect love story.

He brushes her hair for her, though, and she is gentle with his soul, and they sip tea quietly in the evenings when the sky is made of everything blue and bright. He smiles and she laughs and there are kisses and fireflies. In the end, there is Itachi, and there is Sakura, and it is enough.

(_this is easy as lovers go_)

.˙.

.˙.˙.

_What is the use of talking! And there is no end of talking—_  
_There is no end of things in the heart._  
—_Li Po_

˙.˙.˙

˙.˙

.

.

.

**notes5**: i have always wanted to cut Itachi's hair short, but i suppose he would have looked different in a strange sort of way. so i just made it at his shoulders. he grew it easily enough that way.  
**notes6**: STARing— Sakura as _healer_ | Itachi, Sasuke & Naruto as _ronins_ | Akatsuki as _samurais in red clouds_ | Tsunade as _female samurai_ | Yamanaka Ino as _princess_.  
**notes7**: Li Po was a chinese poet of the Tang dynasty, and his Exile Letter is _beautiful_. man, i cried while reading it, i cried —not really.  
**notes8**: do_ not_ favorite without leaving a review. i feel sad and guilty and like a _bitch_ asking this, but constructive criticism helps the author. thank you very much._  
_**notes9**: new stories coming up, just don't know_ when_. actually, it would be a lot easier & faster if i had a _beta_, at least. all those interested can contact me via pm. i swear that i don't bite, darlings —_hard_


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